Dead
by Susie G
Summary: Emily's mental state after she was pronouced dead to the team! What its like living alone in France with only her memory to haunt her


_Well I got ticked about something and felt the need to write this. It came to me and helped me vent my frustration so I hope you all enjoy._

_Disclaimer: I don't own any part of criminal minds(I usually forget to put disclaimer, but I did today)_

_Emily in France after her death._

* * *

"**The secret of happiness is freedom, the secret of freedom is courage."  
****Carrie Jones****, **_**Need**_

_Journal Entry – no date required for someone who is dead_

I sit alone in the silence, dead, but yet I'm still breathing. I'm nothing but a ghost of the past to those of whom I love and still a hope for the future to the two holding on to the most painful secret of all.

My heart aches and hurts each day my death continues. Many times I find myself purging well cooked meals for what my friends are having to suffer. I think about it and tears pool in the bottom of my eye lids, but I don't dare let them fall, knowing there is hope, but is there really?

I question every thought that runs through my mind, an endless torture.

My hand shakes as I reach for the knife, but sometimes I pull it back and destroy everything around me, but only as a temporary release. Then there are times I take the knife and I watch it quiver in my grasp, it almost touches my fair skin, longing for it to bleed, oozing out the pain I no longer want to endure, but something stops me. An unknown force, a silent prayer from across the ocean shared silently in ones solace. The knife clatters as it drops to the floor.

There's moments I wake in the middle of the night, screaming aloud, only to realize I'm dead and alone in the comfort of my bedroom. This is when I find it hard to breath; my breaths become short and quick barely entering my lungs. Things close in and I see a box, but wait I'm in the box and everyone is looking at me crying. I can't get out as the lid begins to close, I struggle to move but I'm frozen. Finally the minutes pass and I can breathe again.

It was just last week I woke the neighbors screaming. Un-realistically I thought maybe if I was loud and passionate enough my friends could hear me. I'm Sorry! I'm Sorry! But to no avail and I had to come up with some lame excuse for my outrageous behavior.

I'm trapped in my dead body, alone.

I question that I made the right decision in pursuing the monster by myself, but in that decision, I almost lost my team and with no question was killed, by the one man who still haunts me. He's alive and I can see him. If I look quickly he's standing in the corner of the room, watching and waiting. In the night he watches over me while I sleep, like a predator waiting to snatch up it's prey when their most vulnerable.

Sometimes there's comfort in knowing that many miles away, Cheetobreath still acknowledges my existence when I can't. When I'm thinking clearly I see a solitary man sitting alone in the silence of his house, while a little boy sleeps, and he knows I'm alive even when I don't.

I've become numb, I stand in the rain waiting to feel it and I never do. I burnt my hand just last week, and the only reason I know is because of the red marks it left, but I didn't feel it. I've become my own ghost, and victim of myself tortured and haunted by evil.

Just now I see it laying next to me, calling my name. My hand shakes as I write, I cower in fear at the thoughts of it, lacking the courage to complete the act. I stop….

It was for a few minutes, my nervous hand picked it up. I spun the barrel, watching as the bullet rotated in and out of the enclosure. One bullet, one game, but no it's not a game it's real. I'm trembling and for the first time I feel the wetness of a tear, against my cheek, as my hand raises the object to my temple. My face can't hold them back anymore; it contorts releasing a flood of emotions.

Even now my paper is wet.

It was the tears that made me stop and I set it back down. Still it beckons me, it has become a friend, in every hour of despair.

My eyes no longer see clearly, as my vision becomes blurred.

I see two people living in a lie and I'm able to let the moment pass.

My whole life I've had courage, but in the hour I long for its desire, it fails me.

For now, my courage has allowed me to die once and I wait for it to come back, so finally I can die again, blissfully snatching away the anguish in which one calls this life.

I want to die but I can't. How can a person who is already dead, die again? Finally with that question I realize I've made it to hell.

"**I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear."  
****Nelson Mandela**

* * *

_Yes the emotions are rampant and wild, but if it were me my would definatley be so I'd love to know what you thought. Thanks for reading._


End file.
